


An Open Book

by darkmagess



Series: The Smoke of Charleston Clings [3]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Bottom!Flint, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Frottage, M/M, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Spooning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-07-29 19:06:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7695841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkmagess/pseuds/darkmagess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After leaving Tortuga, Flint unexpectedly tries to forge a friendship with Billy, but the events of Charleston still haunt him, and there is only so much Billy can do to assuage so much grief.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Open Book

The Man O’War—maybe they’d name it for real someday—crested a wave and plowed into the trough, sending a spray of cold seawater just high enough that it misted across Billy’s skin as the winds took it, cooling him, even as he lay in the sun. He rocked a little on the plank he’d set between two coils of spare line in the fo’c’sle, moving with the motion of the ship with lazy ease. They’d spent three days in Tortuga refitting and had just left the island sinking below the horizon heavy with their hard-won coin.

Billy adjusted his shoulder blades, where the plank was biting, and concentrated on the red-blackness behind his eyelids. Two days at top speed to Nassau. And after that… Who knew what came after that? He let the sun beat the worry out of him for the moment, going boneless as he listened to the roar and slap of waves.

Suddenly, the heat vanished, and the color behind his eyes changed as a shadow fell across Billy’s face. He opened his eyes and startled a little at the black, looming silhouette. His vision adjusted enough to resolve Flint’s beard, then eyes. Billy’s pulse jumped, and he started to surge up to sitting, but Flint held out his hand, gesturing for him to settle.

“As you were,” he said, sounding a bit amused.

As Billy blinked up at him, Flint glanced around the deck before reaching into his coat and pulling something out from under his arm. He bent, watchful eyes still scanning, and placed a small, green book on Billy’s stomach. Billy stared at it for a second in confusion, then up at Flint. Something gentle passed through his expression. Not quite a smile, but it eased the frown lines.

Flint shrugged one shoulder. “I thought you might like it.” He paused while Billy picked up the book and read the spine, speaking again when Billy shifted his attention back. “Read a few chapters. Come tell me what you think,” he said.

Billy might have been staring slackjawed. He nodded, too confused to piece together any more response than that. It seemed enough for the captain, though, who nodded back and turned on his heel, stalking across the deck toward his cabin. Billy sat up slowly, cradling the book in his big hands, thunderstruck. Perhaps… a test of some kind?

He opened the front cover carefully and turned to the title page, smoothing the paper. _The History of the Valorous & Witty Knight-Errant Don Quixote of the Mancha._ Turning, Billy frowned in the direction of Flint’s quarters. Every time they took a ship, Flint had made a point to rummage through their captain’s library, taking whatever interested him with far more keen an eye than whatever booty lay in the hold. When they landed at Nassau, he would tuck one volume into a coat pocket or satchel and bring it as an offering to Ms. Barl—to Miranda.

Billy’s guts quivered a little with an emotion he couldn’t identify, and he wondered if this was an apology of sorts, for Tortuga. They hadn’t really said much afterward. Flint’s exterior came on with the coat, and Billy had plenty of work to do. He didn’t imagine there was much to say, anyway. A thank you would have been nice though, he thought. For choosing kindness.

Billy rolled his shoulders and braced his feet against the sway of the ship as he opened the book to chapter one and started to read.

 

 

It didn’t take long for Billy’s duties aboard the ship to intervene. He carried the book with him wherever he went, setting it in safe nooks and keeping an eye always out that he didn’t lose it to a light hand. Here and there, he found pockets of time to fill with a few sentences, before someone had a question or needed his help or strength or reach. He spent first dog’s watch in the gun deck, cleaning, greasing the screws, and assembling charges. When the bell rang, and they could no longer see, Billy heaved to his feet and reached automatically for the book, wedged between two powder barrels. He stopped, his fingers just short of the cover, when he saw his hands black with grime. He felt Dooley’s questioning eyes on him as he drew back but elected against explaining that the captain had given him something to read and he didn’t want to spoil it.

“Get this shit off me,” Billy muttered, just loud enough to be heard, before pounding up the steps to find a bucket of water on the deck.

Gunpowder grime is a bitch to clean, but he scrubbed until his hands no longer left darkened smears on his shirt and figured that good enough. Worry pinched at the back of his neck as he headed back down, a part of him sure the book would be gone, not because Dooley was untrustworthy but because it was _important_ that it be there, waiting for him.

Billy let out a relieved breath as he squinted between the powder barrels and plucked the volume out. It was a perfect weight in his hand. Warm, worn leather. The worry eased, and his heart slowed. Flint wanted him to read it; he would read it.

He gave himself morning watch the following day, and even so got up early so as not to waste sunlight. The watch and work schedule he’d made gave him a free afternoon—perks of being boatswain and acting quartermaster. Silver had been voted in, officially, but still hadn’t stirred. If he lived, which Howell deemed a distinct possibility, he’d find himself with a hefty promotion.

Billy managed to finish chapter four before morning watch, then dropped the book into a satchel and hauled himself up to the main top to take his turn. From the vantage point, he saw Flint leave his cabin and speak to DeGroot at the helm. He couldn’t hear them, but a flurry of activity kicked up in Flint’s wake, and Billy grabbed at a line as DeGroot spun the wheel and the whole ship leaned into a turn. Billy frowned and checked the horizons again, but he couldn’t see either pursuer or prize.

Something was going on, but his attention kept slipping to the Spanish countryside, his imagination conjuring images of Don Quixote when he should be watching the seas. When the watch ended, Billy scurried down to the deck and restrained himself from running to Flint’s cabin on decorum alone. He pulled the book from the satchel as he knocked, then slipped through the door at the captain’s word.

 

 

Flint glanced up sharply as Billy entered, and then the frown relaxed from his features. His eyes flicked to the book, and a small smile touched his lips as he gestured at a chair on the other side of the desk. He looked dressed down without the coat, comfortable. The burgundy shirt accentuated his coloring, and Billy couldn’t help but let his eyes linger on exposed forearms and strong hands. He met Flint’s gaze as he sat, and it shot through to the base of his spine. He’d felt him watching the last few days, same as always, but with a new quality, less scathing judgment.

Billy might have taken it personally, except he was good at keeping an eye on things. The fire in Flint’s belly that kept the crew snapping to his will barely smoldered. He lingered in a fog, keeping to himself as he drifted about the ship. But… neither had they come upon an enemy, either. Perhaps… when he saw an English banner…

Flint sat back in his chair, and Billy glanced down at the book in his hands, breaking eye contact.

“I read the first four chapters,” he offered.

James grinned at him and got up, moving to sit on the sill by an open window at the back of the cabin.

“What did you think?” he asked, letting his hands gather in his lap as he turned his attention Billy’s way.

Billy drew a breath and frowned down at the book in his hands, suddenly feeling the crawl of nerves in his belly and down his legs. If there was a correct answer, he wanted to give it, but… how could he answer this question wrong?

“He’s… well he’s insane, isn’t he?” he said, and glanced up at Flint for a reaction. “He just decides to become someone else cause he read it in a book. He doesn’t seem to see what’s right in front of him. Literally sees delusions.” James nodded at him, encouraging, and the nerves settled. “I was surprised at first that the innkeeper was going to indulge him, but then he was only going to do it so he could line his own pockets. He _tried_ to do good with the farm hand, but, I mean, he just made it worse. The boy got beaten worse _after_ his intervention than he had been before it. So far… Honestly?” Flint’s eyebrows lifted in curiosity. “He seems dangerous,” Billy said.

A small, wry smile crossed Flint’s face as he nodded and dropped his gaze to the ground. Billy could not help but think that he must feel a kinship to a man whose best efforts only bring him sorrow.

“Sorry,” he added, softer.

James looked up at him in surprise. “What? No. Why?”

Billy shrugged, not sure what to say, not sure where this whole endeavor was going. He couldn’t tell if he’d answered well. Flint’s gaze drifted from him, and he smiled sadly at something as he leaned back into the corner of the sill.

“Do you have a favorite passage?” he asked.

Billy looked down at the book and opened it, recalling the incidents he’d read so far. He flipped through the pages, eyes scanning the words, and eventually nodded.

“Come,” Flint’s voice, smooth and warm. Billy glanced up to find him gesturing to the cushioned sill. “Read it for me?”

Fresh anxiety washed down Billy’s neck as he stood and crossed the room, his finger marking the page. Perhaps a new round of evaluation? He couldn’t fathom what purpose Flint had in mind as he settled into the opposite corner of the bank of windows and lowered the open book into a beam of sunlight. James leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, waiting. He looked alarmingly serene.

But, Billy swallowed down his doubt and read to him:

> _‘There drops not, base scoundrels,’ quoth Don Quixote, all inflamed with choler,—‘there drops not, I say, from her that which thou sayst, but amber and civet among bombase; and she is not blind of an eye, or crook-backed, but is straighter than a spindle of Guadarama. But all of you together shall pay for the great blasphemy thou hast spoken against so immense a beauty as is that of my mistress.’ And, saying so, he abased his lance against him that had answered, with such fury and anger, as, if good fortune had not so ordained it that Rozinante should stumble and fall in the midst of the career, it had gone very ill with the bold merchant. Rozinante fell, in fine, and his master reeled over a good piece of the field; and though he attempted to rise, yet was he never able, he was so encumbered by his lance, target, spurs, helmet, and his weighty old armour. And in the meanwhile that he strove to arise, and could not, he cried: ‘Fly not, cowardly folk! abide, base people, abide! for I lie not her through mine own fault, but through the defect of my horse.’_

It wasn’t a long passage, but long enough that he forgot his self-consciousness by the end. He closed the book with his finger on the page and chuckled at himself. “I haven’t done that since I finished schooling.”

Flint opened his eyes, peering at him. The light caught their color—sea glass. Arresting. “Done what?” he asked.

“Read out loud.”

Flint smiled a little, disarmingly kind, and huffed in humor. “Well, you’ve a knack for it. A good voice and easy cadence.”

Billy felt himself blush. “I—Thank you, sir.” And figured he must have passed the test.

James cocked his head in amusement at something but covered it by looking out the window. “What did you like about it?”

_More_ questions. And yet…

It occurred to Billy then that he _wasn’t_ being quizzed. That there were no right answers. That everything Flint had said and done since he’d come into the room was designed to get him to talk. That this was, instead, the captain’s attempt at _conversation_. Billy understood all at once, like a flower blooming, that when James had brought books to Miranda _this_ was what they did. Talked about them. Shared their thoughts. He was trying to connect in the only way he knew how.

Billy’s face grew hot, and he found the air thickening, his heart beating just a tick faster. When he didn’t answer immediately, James looked at him, and Billy ducked his head, opening quickly back to the page to scan the words again.

“It’s…” He thought over the scene, breathing deep to calm himself—Quixote making blustering demands of strangers, then falling from his horse when his attack fails. “It’s pathetic,” Billy said eventually. “I mean, I feel sorry for him. I think he knows it’s his own fault, but he blames it on the horse just so he won’t have to face it. I can just picture an old man, lying there. Can’t even get up. Like my grandfather near the end.”

James hummed in agreement and tilted his head. “Anything else strike you about it?”

Billy shrugged. “He talks funny. Thy and thee. That sort of thing.”

Flint smiled at him with a look of pride. “It’s held over from the Spanish. In the original, Cervantes had him speak in an old Spanish dialect so obtuse to modern readers they could barely understand him. It was a… sort of mockery. At least that’s what it felt like, slogging through it. In English”—he gestured, his rings flashing—“that’s the best they could do.”

Billy nodded and fell silent, empty of any further opinions but wishing with a burn in his chest that he had more. Something _had_ changed since Tortuga, then. Were they—what?—friends? Billy looked down at the book, weighing it in one hand. “Guess I’ll have to go read more now,” he said, rising from the sill.

Flint grinned again—all these smiles!—and nodded, looking pleased as he sat in the sunlight while the wind from the open window pulled at his shirt. Billy ducked his head and turned, feeling as though the ship listed under him the wrong direction. He had no compass for waters like this.

In a daze, still not entirely convinced it _hadn’t_ been a test, Billy made for the door. As he neared, James called his name, bringing him to a stop. He glanced back over his shoulder.

“Thank you,” Flint said to him, as sincere as he had ever sounded.

Despite his doubt, Billy felt a small piece of his soul shine to gleaming, and he departed with a nod and shy smile to himself.

 

 

The winds shifted overnight. A faint darkening of the eastern horizon suggested a storm had missed them but left this gift in its wake. Flint glared every suggestion to change course into submission, and the ship’s master ran them all ragged trying to catch even the faintest breeze.

Adjusting angles. Trimming. Tacking to find the wind. Billy hadn’t had time to fetch the book from his hammock, though he doubted he could have read much anyway. Sometime late afternoon, while they sang and hauled to turn the mizzen, he caught sight of Dr. Howell trekking to and from the captain’s cabin several times.

DeGroot had to give up eventually; there was no more power to pluck from the air. Everyone but the watch cleared off, and Billy leaned against the nearest railing, turning toward the setting sun. He shivered with a fresh sensation of unease. Consequences were coming for them, and for a moment he indulged in pondering the possible forms. But you could only fix what was in front of you, so he let what breeze there was carry the worry away. In its wake settled the burn of exhaustion. He trudged toward the galley on limbs of lead and scowled at the sound of laughter as he approached.

How could anyone have the energy for it?

But energy they had. Mostly Vane’s men.

Billy grabbed a plate of… something brown and found a seat far from the others to drop into. He sighed, hurting gnawing at his back and hands, and played with his spoon. Another round of laughter roiled around the room, and he hunched his shoulders.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement. Then a hand touched his shoulder, squeezing briefly. He looked up to see Captain Flint rounding the table, a bottle of wine and two cups in his hand. He settled on the opposite bench and set the bottle down, then the cups. Flint filled his own cup first, then started on the second. He glanced up briefly, catching Billy’s eye, and cast a pointed look toward Vane’s men.

“Not going to join in?” he asked, his face very still.

Billy shrugged slowly. “Not really in the mood.”

Flint pushed the cup of wine toward him. The spoon in Billy’s hand sagged until it made a small sound against the plate; he stared at the brown slop. Someone behind them said something about pigs—he was trying not to listen—and Billy felt his nerves fray. The fucking crew… He took a drink to dull the edge. A second for good measure.

“They’re animals. All of them,” Flint’s voice rumbled, stealing Billy’s very thoughts.

He glanced up to find the captain scowling into his wine.

“Good pirates,” Billy offered, quietly. They’d taken _them_ by surprise.

Flint tipped his head, conceding the point. “Despicable men.” He sneered at another outburst of hooting laughs and shook his head, peering into his cup before having another swallow.

“Saw Howell at your cabin earlier,” Billy said, curiosity finally getting the better of him.

Flint made a sound of assent and leaned forward, wrapping both hands around his cup. “Silver’s looking worse,” he said, low and conspiratorial. “Lost his color. Sweating. Howell wants to keep a closer eye on him. Should be moving him now, while no one’s watching.”

That was the last thing they needed. The sense of disquiet returned, low and hot in Billy’s guts. “Is he gonna die?” he asked.

Flint stared into him for a moment, then lifted his shoulders. “Possibly not. It would be more annoying that way.”

Billy snorted a little laugh and the tension eased. His stomach rumbled, and he picked up the spoon again, feeling Flint’s gaze on him. “I…” He poked at the stew. “I didn’t get a chance to read any more yet.” He met the gaze. “I’m sorry.”

The captain waved his words aside and topped up their cups again. Billy took the chance to eat something, chewing as footsteps approached from behind. Vane sauntered into view and took a seat next to Flint as though he’d been invited. He eyed the both of them, and Billy felt his hackles rise.

“We changed course, yesterday,” Vane said, studying the side of Flint’s face.

“We did.” Flint picked up his cup and swirled it.

Vane narrowed his eyes and the muscle in his jaw jumped as he controlled his temper. “I _thought_ we were going to Nassau,” his voice came out a dusty growl.

“I changed my mind.”

Billy felt the urge to kick Flint under the table as he shoveled in another mouthful of tasteless stew.

Vane’s gaze flicked Billy’s way. “Is he always like this?”

Billy shrugged, swallowed. “Pretty much.”

Vane set his own cup down, spread both hands flat on the table. “I don’t think you understand the situation here.”

Flint turned to him very slowly. “Enlighten me.”

“My crew took this ship and killed your men. Far as they’re concerned, they could do it again.”

Flint stared at him.

“Do you know why they don’t?” Charles purred, pitched low. He didn’t wait for a reply. “Because I told them not to.”

Flint scoffed and looked away, testing Vane’s ire.

“What do you think happens if I lose their confidence?” Vane asked.

The shot hit home, visible in the tension around Flint’s eyes. Billy could see him calculating, and if he could see it, Charles could, too.

Vane leaned a little closer, into Flint’s space. “So I’m going to ask you again. Where. Are. We. Going?”

“Into the shipping lines.” If a man could bark quietly, that was the sound. “We need money. Resources.”

“You want to take a prize? Now? The Navy will be all over those lanes.”

Flint swirled his cup and emptied the last of its contents. “And?” He cut Vane a cold and steady look.

Vane narrowed his eyes and said nothing, settling back to grace Billy and Flint both with a contemplative look.

“You should drill the crews together,” Flint told him. “Your men are ruthless. Make mine moreso.”

Charles huffed. “I’m not sure having them cross swords is a good idea.” He paused. “But I’ll think about it.”

Vane reached across the table for the wine bottle and poured himself some of what Billy suspected was Flint’s personal stash. Flint glared at him, and Vane very purposefully took a drink, as though the theft made some kind of point. He stood and stared down at Flint until the captain caved and looked up at him. Vane smirked and rejoined his tenuous command, making sure they were drunk and happy, for the moment at least.

When he was finally gone, too far to overhear them, Flint sighed and rubbed his hands over his face.

Billy smirked and dug his spoon around his plate. “You _really_ don’t like him,” he said, trying not to laugh.

Flint huffed and looked away, hiding a grin. “I really don’t.”

 

 

The following day turned to one of revelry out of sheer fucking boredom. Billy kept to the outskirts, constantly moving to see that work was getting done. He kept the book in a satchel at his side and found time to read between adjusting the sails and being egged into singing.

At the close of dog’s watch, Billy rang the bell and climbed down to the deck. Fiddle music drifted up from below decks, and he shook his head at the stamina. All day. Now all night? He felt the book press against his leg and something flutter in his chest. The small windows of Flint’s cabin glowed, and Billy found himself crossing the boards. He knocked on the door and slipped inside without waiting.

Captain Flint blinked at him drowsily, head barely raised from the desk where he must have been sleeping. Billy ducked with a pang of guilt, but in the unguarded moments of waking, Flint smiled at him, something easy and automatic.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to—” His hand still on the door, Billy retreated a step.

“No, no.” Flint straightened, drawing a breath to clear the cobwebs, and gestured to a chair. “Please…”

While Billy closed the door and sat, Flint pulled an engraved bottle from a lower drawer in his desk. He set out a second glass and poured them both rum. Flint sat, unhurried, and regarded him with quiet curiosity.

“I, um. I finished some more chapters.” Billy announced, holding up the little book. A grin touched Flint’s mouth, and he kicked his feet up onto the desk, gesturing for him to go on.

“Well… they burned all his books after they took the ones they wanted, and then his niece and housekeeper lied to him about an enchanter coming to the house and stealing his library. Which… I don’t know…” Billy set the book on the desk and picked up the glass of rum. He stared at it, then at Flint. “If they wanted to break the delusion, why tell him an enchanter stole part of his house? That’s… more delusion. And he thinks now that he’s got another enemy to fight.”

Flint shrugged. “He’d have been upset if they told him the truth. That his own family burned all those books. A lifetime of collecting gone up in smoke.”

“Well, then, they’re cowards,” Billy said, and swallowed down a mouthful of rum.

James smirked at him, eyes dancing.

“And Sancho Panza!” Billy said suddenly, warming to the subject. “Why?”

“Why what?” Flint laughed a little at his outburst.

“Left his wife and child! What possible reason—what promise could a deranged old man make…” He huffed, incensed. “He’s just going to leave, no good-bye. No guarantee. No payment. He’s as mad as the old man!” Billy’s chest burned with indignation.

Flint swirled his rum, took a drink, and set the tumbler on the desk, thoughtfully. “Is it so different from us?” he asked, voice light.

Billy shrugged and met his gaze. “Except the part about choosing.”

“We chose.” Flint tapped on the articles half hidden under a map on his desk.

“Not to leave! Just the parts that came after. He _could_ have stayed home.”

Flint grinned wryly at him and nodded, conceding the point.

Billy slouched in his chair and sighed, feeling the heat and bubble of rum in his blood. He let his eyes fall shut and relaxed, listening for a moment to the music dulled but audible through the floorboards.

“You know, reading reminds me of home,” he said softly. “Of being a child.” He brought the rum to his lips and drank down what was left. He could feel Flint’s gaze on him, like he always felt it. That beacon. Billy cracked his eyes open and set the glass on the desk. Flint moved to refill it, and Billy lifted the glass toward him in salute as he eased back. “It makes me wonder what happened to them all,” he said, tongue suddenly loose. A tension in his throat he hadn’t known about eased. “Did Theodore end up a butcher like his dad? Is Marvin a cobbler? Maybe he’s a priest, who knows?” Another swallow of that smooth amber rum. He quirked a smile. “I wonder if Mary ended up marrying Sid.” He made a face at Flint. “I hated Sid.”

James grinned at him with conspiratorial glint. “But you liked Mary.”

Billy laughed a little and scratched at the back of his neck. “When I was sixteen. She was the _worst_ of us. Always her bad ideas getting me in trouble.”

“You? A troublemaker?” James laughed, a real laugh that altered the architecture of his face.

Billy gestured with his glass. “Well, I am a pirate now, so…”

Flint hid his smile in his cup.

“And it wasn’t _trouble_ , exactly… Not lawbreaking, but _definitely_ ill-advised.”

Flint nodded like he didn’t believe him, and that, _that_ was a challenge worth taking.

 

 

An hour may have passed. More? He lost count of the cups. Tears streamed down Billy’s face, and his jaw hurt from laughing. He wheezed and wiped at his eyes, while James snickered and tried to sit up straight. Billy’s ribs ached as he tried to breathe, and then he saw Flint, red as sunburn, swiping at his cheeks. Billy stared at him, the image so incongruous, so utterly captivating it filled him with a sense of lightness and butterflies.

With a sigh and relieved gasp, Flint’s mirth settled, and they just looked at one another, grinning like fools. Billy struggled against another bubble of laughter with a snort, and James turned redder.

“Stop it…”

“I can’t!” He struggled and clamped his hands over his face, not even sure what they were laughing about anymore, only that his whole body ached with it. He took slow, deliberate breaths. Not looking. He was _not_ looking.

James sighed, a happy sound, and Billy lowered his hands, grinning till his face hurt. He felt vital and tired at once, watching with no small amount of pride as Flint rested his chin in his hand and bit on one his fingers to fight the jostle of humor.

The bell of the watch sounded midnight, and Billy gave a look toward the door rolling his shoulders. He should think about sleeping. As he stood and the day’s weariness settled on him, he stretched out the ache in his ribs and groaned in relief when his spine cracked. He reached for the book on the corner of the desk, a little drunk and a little giddy. He could feel his soul shining and met Flint’s eyes.

“Have a good night, captain,” he said.

Billy turned to go.

“Stay?” James’s voice drifted to him, unencumbered by Flint’s scowl and gravity.

Billy paused and looked back at an expression both doubting and hopeful. He thought of Tortuga. Last time, Flint had told him he could stay if he wanted. A statement, and one that put everything on Billy’s shoulders. But this single word… was a request. Billy was a grown man. He could say no.

But why? Why, when captivating eyes pleaded with him. When he’d already dreamed more than once of that delicate skin. This taste for the Irish complexion was a new discovery, and he wondered if it extended to anyone else.

Without breaking eye contact, Billy turned and set the book back on the corner of the desk. Flint rose with an easy motion and came to meet him, his movements fluid. Billy stood, body humming, and waited to see what he would do. The answer, after a moment’s contemplation, was to reach up and cup Billy’s cheek.

James played with the scruff of his beard, a mischievous smile crossing his face, before sliding his hand to the nape of Billy’s neck and pulling him down into a kiss. Each time the quality of their kiss had been different. This time, easy eagerness. Billy relaxed into it, warmth and flapping wings spreading through him. He let his hands find James’s waist and just hold him there. He could feel the shape of a smile pressing to his lips and smiled back, tripping into playful nipping before yielding to more ardent desire as Flint’s free hand slid down his body and settled on one ass cheek, resting there as though this was its natural home. When he finally squeezed, Billy moaned into his mouth in approval and smiled again.

So it was going to be like that.

Flint parted them with a hand to his chest and walked Billy backward with only the lightest pressure to the alcove with his bed. His fingers grazed Billy’s cheek again. A light kiss.

“I don’t think you’ll need these,” he said, and lifted the necklaces from around Billy’s neck, hands glancing, leaving tracks that left Billy wanting more, pulse thundering.

Flint knelt to set them down, and Billy watched his head lower to groin level. His whole body tensed with a ripple of anticipation as he stared, waited. _Jesus, God._ James glanced, and that was all it took for his erection to become obvious. Should he be embarrassed? He couldn’t tell. He clenched his fists at his sides, shivering, and then James flicked his gaze upward, smirking because he knew _precisely_ what he was doing.

Billy licked his lower lip. _Breathe… breathe…_ And Flint reached for his belt. He undid the buckle, careful, so careful of his hands Billy almost groaned at him. But the weight dropped, and Flint stood, and he was there kissing him again, lips and throat, hot apologies for the tease, licks of encouragement. His hand pulled at Billy’s shirt, and together they tossed it aside.

“Sit…”

He sat. Short, heated breaths as Flint stripped him bare and Billy edged back on the bed until his shoulders hit the wall. Flint climbed astride, hovering over for a moment just to look. Billy arched as a prickle of beard rubbed his neck. Hot mouth, pressure. He moaned when James found the pulse point and pressed him to it until the hard flicks of tongue made him shake.

Flint moved on, leaving a trail. Scraping teeth. Brush of beard. He laved at a nipple, and Billy gasped, sharp. He twisted as nerves ignited and could not hold in the whine that cracked out of him. He shook. Flint’s hand traced up his chest and throat, and Billy captured two fingers in his mouth, relieved to participate.

He swirled his tongue over them, sucked.

“F-fuck…” James turned his head aside, resting on Billy’s chest, and shuddered.

Billy licked the length of one finger. Then the other. Flooding with satisfaction as he felt the effect against his thigh. Flint lifted his head, panting, and looked at him, locking eyes. Billy leaned forward, sucking harder, and Flint swallowed, eyes blown black. Billy released him slowly, staring into him, and leaned back.

James glanced at his two spit-covered fingers, barely breathing. “I think I owe you more courtesy than that,” he said softly. “If… that’s what you want?”

Billy shrugged at him. “I can…”

James tipped his head and narrowed his eyes. “That’s not what I asked.”

He sat straddling one leg, and Billy reached for his waist with both hands, stroking gently up and down his sides. Billy swallowed and dropped his gaze.

“I don’t prefer it. It’s just—It doesn’t seem to—”

Flint shushed him with a kiss to the corner of his mouth and then brought his lips to Billy’s ear. “Where’s that pouch of yours?” he whispered.

The whisper shot through his spine straight to his groin, and Billy arched.

“It’s the—it’s the…” He waved, trying to remember words while James kissed his neck. “Small… Right…”

His skin sparked. Everywhere a touch, a burn. He couldn’t breathe like this. Shuddered. Finally, Flint drew back to go searching, and Billy sucked a full lungful. Doubt twitched at the back of his neck when Flint set the lanolin jar on the bed and straightened.

Hadn’t he…

He’d just said no, but…

The thought cut off as Flint pulled his shirt off over his head and dropped it. Billy drew an unsteady breath and exhaled loudly. Flint’s eyes flicked to him, watching as Billy’s attention roamed. Billy’s pulse jumped, and he felt his cock twitch.

James looked down at himself, a small crease of confusion on his brow. “What?”

Billy wasn’t sure how to put it to words. “I—I just… Admiring.” It was inadequate, and he burned with wanting him to _know_.

A blush started at Flint’s chest and flashed up his neck and face. “Admiring what?” His words so light, so wondering. He looked down at himself, touching a few scars.

Billy leaned forward and ran his fingertips over one pec and shoulder, gaze intent. How to do better?

“It’s like the night sky,” he muttered.

James flushed again.

“And I _love_ that.” Billy chased the color with his lips, chest, neck, jaw.

“Look who’s a poet,” James whispered unevenly.

Billy held his cheek in his hand. “You asked,” gentle and close.

James smiled, a shy thing. “I liked the answer.”

Billy’s heart might have burst.

With that same light pressure, Flint urged Billy to lie back, stretching kittycorner across the bed. He undressed, even letting his ponytail out, and the thrum of anticipation built under Billy’s skin. Flint drew close enough to move between his legs, and Billy hiked one knee up to admit him. With a frown, Flint pressed it back down.

“But you said—”

Billy shrugged, self-conscious and not quite sure. “Thought… you might have taken it as a challenge?”

Flint stared at him and then hung his head, defeated utterly for a moment, before he crawled up the rest of Billy’s body to kiss him. Nothing light and playful, but that deep need. Worshipful gratitude. Gripping passion. James moaned from wanting him, touching him, and Billy felt it echo through his skin. Ran his hands over strong shoulders, muscles sliding. Arched for the friction.

He wanted to rut, however they were doing it.

James sat back onto his knees and reached for the lanolin jar. Billy watched him, heart racing against his ribs, and ran his broad palms up pale legs to feel the jump and tension of muscle. Flint spread the lanolin thick on his hands, and Billy arched again, pulling at him, his anticipation spun wire-thin and tight. If he didn’t do—

Flint wrapped one slick hand around Billy’s cock and stroked. Billy dropped his head back at the rush of relief and let out a small, vulnerable sound. His whole body responded to the touch, rising into it, hands clenching with matching rhythm. Smiling with devilish pride, Flint leaned down into him, kissing into the hollow of his shoulder.

_Pull_ , he thought.

_Heave_ , he thought.

James dropped his hips, and their bodies slid into alignment, cocks pressed between bellies, pressed against one another. Billy’s breath punched out, and then Flint closed his hand around the both of them.

“Fuck, me.” Billy clutched at him with careful power, and James chuckled into his shoulder.

“Trying…” He huffed onto Billy’s ear, and Billy shifted so he could kiss and nip Flint’s shoulder and neck in return, searching for a sensitive spot. James groaned at a flick of his tongue and he sucked hard, feeling him quake.

_Stroke._ God. _Stroke._ He couldn’t stop from thrusting. The tight hand. The silken feel of skin between them. Flint switched hands and arched, grinding down. He huffed with effort, bit at his lip.

“Will you stop trying to be quiet?” Billy demanded, snapping his hips so the pleasure touched his toes. He reached blindly for the lanolin jar and managed to get a little on one finger. It was precisely enough. James tightened his grip, and Billy’s eyes rolled as he hummed, need starting to coil. He traced his thumb along his partner’s back to the round swell of his ass and then searched with the slicked finger for Flint’s opening. His rhythm stuttered at the touch, but Billy rubbed, lightly, gently.

James shook everywhere and moaned, stopping entirely. A whimper. A breaking. He exhaled and jerked, keening.

“That’s”--Billy kissed his shoulder--“more like it.”

Encouraged, the dam broken, Flint got louder. He picked up the rhythm again, intent this time, faster. Each breath singing want and pleasure. Billy lifted them both with his hips, giving in to urge as the need burned.

“I can’t…” _Huff._

“You can.”

“I can’t…” Friction, friction. Nowhere to run.

A kiss, fleeting. James pressed their foreheads together. “You can.”

He stroked and stroked until Billy thought his skin would fly apart, an unrelenting sensation that didn’t stop even as he bucked and tensed with release. Stars behind his eyes. The night sky. His hand still clutched Flint’s ass, ready to penetrate, but he rubbed instead, gentle and light on sensitive flesh. Flint still had them both clutched in his fist and he jerked and trembled and pressed back onto Billy’s hand seeking more, rocking forward into the tightness. He forgot embarrassment and shame, letting small cries fall from his lips, striving. Billy circled faster and a little harder, panting with burning skin, until Flint’s whole body clenched.

They breathed together for a moment, James still kneeling astride him, barely holding himself up on one arm. Cum covered a good deal of both their bellies as their breathing slowed. Billy urged Flint to collapse onto the bed instead of straight down, and he complied. Flint lay bonelessly panting beside him, staring at the mess on Billy’s body with an unreadable expression. He clearly wasn’t moving, though, leaving Billy to haul himself up through the languidness for the energy to find a rag.

He found a rag and a bucket of water and wiped himself down on his way back, then urged James to roll over a little more to give him access. Flint blinked at him lazily with a gentle smile. When Billy deemed them acceptably clean, he tossed the rag aside, returned the little jar to its proper pouch, and crawled back onto the bed, wondering where they stood now.

That didn’t feel like the desperate fuck at the inn. He buried one hand behind his head, and to his great shock, James took it as an invitation and moved in, using the crook of Billy’s arm for a pillow. Were they holding, now? He eased his arm down experimentally.

James drew a breath and opened his eyes. “Was that all right?” he asked, drowsy and unguarded.

Billy touched his face. If tenderness was the thing they were sharing, he could indulge that, too. There was precious little of it in their existence. “Thoroughly enjoyed it,” he whispered.

The worry lines melted off Flint’s face, and Billy watched him drift to sleep. His body hummed with gleaming gold as he stared up at the ceiling and felt the sway and rock of the gently sailing ship.

 

 

A kick shocked Billy awake, and he felt Flint moving beside him, twisting and muttering. The candles had all burned out, leaving only moonlight and scant shadows. Flint jerked and whimpered in the throes of a nightmare, and Billy reached for him.

“James!” A hushed whisper. He shook his arm. “James?”

Flint gasped and sat up, heaving and shaking. He flinched when Billy moved, breathing hard and dripping sweat.

“Hey…” Billy whispered, keeping his voice calm.

“I… I just.” His voice wavered and cut off into a wounded sound. A guttural sob choked half through.

At a loss, Billy felt in the darkness for his shoulders and pulled James into a hug. Grief, it had to be. And beyond his power to fix.

He said nothing. Just shook and strained to reel in whatever might have been words. Billy felt the tears on his chest, burning through till his heart ached. His throat closed, and all he could do was whisper.

“I’m sorry.”

James gathered himself, sucking a deep breath as he pulled away and then _roared_. Billy wasn’t prepared for the sound of it—a loud and terrible wail that sent the animal part of him fleeing for cover. It was anger, yes, but terror, too. The storm and the void and the falling. Enveloping cold. Airless crush. _Mortality_ in a sound.

Flint ran out of breath and gasped; and something went very wrong. He shoved at Billy’s arms— _gasp, gasp_ —and flailed with panic. Each inhale too short, too loud. He sounded like a man drowning, not getting any air. And each small exhale a terrified keen.

Billy’s heart raced, and he couldn’t see. Couldn’t tell what was wrong or the source of this new madness. Adrenaline kicked through his system, and he froze trying to decide. You hold a drowning man up, that’s what you do. He shimmied into place at Flint’s back, reaching, looping one arm around his middle and sliding the other across his shoulders. Not constricting but holding him against the solidity of his own body. James clutched his arm, and Billy rocked him, letting instinct guide his movements. He shushed and nuzzled at his hair, while Flint wheezed and dug his fingers bruising tight.

“I’m sorry,” Billy whispered, rocking gently. “It’s okay… You’re all right…” Meaningless sounds—plucked heartstrings of truth. It calmed his own panic to say them while he swayed.

_I’m here. I’m here._ That’s all it was, over and over.

At length he felt Flint’s breathing shift and deepen. The worst of the fit passed, and James loosened his grip.

Billy shifted his arm down to meet the other, hugging around the middle. He wished he could see anything at all, had some idea how to help. He squeezed a little tighter.

James sighed and went suddenly boneless against him, and Billy’s heart jumped. “Sir?”

Flint drew a phlegmy breath full of exhaustion and tears. “When will this stop?” he whispered, no strength left.

Billy exhaled in relief and kept rocking. “I don’t know…” He pressed a kiss to a bare shoulder, and James shivered.

With another sigh too full of the world and weariness, James shifted his weight, moving to lie down on his side. Billy followed him, keeping a hand in contact. _I’m here._ It was all he could do. He watched the outline of Flint’s form in the moonlight. A gossamer silence spun between them, something thin and easily broken. Flint reached back and found Billy’s thigh, pulling on him, then his hip. He urged Billy close, until they touched, and arched back against him with a needy sound. Billy grazed his fingers over Flint’s flank and bumped his head against his shoulder blade, tracing with his nose toward his partner’s neck. He breathed and felt James tremble.

“I…” _God._ “I can’t fuck the grief out of you,” he said gently, heart heavy.

An exhale. A firmer grip on his hip.

With a sigh, Billy placed a kiss on Flint’s shoulder, hanging there a moment, and then rolled over to look for his belt on the floor. He pulled out the lanolin jar, making a face at its diminished weight. It was going to need a refill soon. He rolled back into place and conjured the smallest of plans. He hadn’t gotten to take his time the first encounter. Now he would.

He slathered up two fingers of his left hand heavily and traced his way to the globes of Flint’s buttocks. Flint went to lift a knee, but Billy pressed him down, and he silently obeyed. This way the hole would be deeper in, and he would have flesh to feel and play with. He slipped a finger down into the cleft, leaving a trail of grease and stretched his free arm above their heads so he could move closer still.

Such heat. Such lovely smoothness. James gasped a little when he touched him. Involuntary spasm. But he stroked gently, teased the tight pucker of muscle. Applied the smallest of pressure and took his time. Flint’s breathing turned ragged, still, quiet.

He rubbed. Pressed. _Please._ Almost voiced it.

A high, thin sound escaped James, and he pushed back into him. Effortless slide. Flint tensed. Relaxed. Billy pressed lips between his shoulders and stroked.

In…

And out…

Twisting.

Massaging deep.

The _sighs_. _Jesus._ Went straight to his cock. To his surprise, James remembered from earlier. _Let me hear you._ Needing me… wanting me…

A broken exhale.

Billy groaned and pressed his forehead to Flint’s back.

Two fingers, then…

James stretched his limbs and clutched, needing the motion. He begged with the rock of his hips, and Billy kissed his shoulder full of promises. He was starting to like that spot…

He stroked deeper. Stretching.

Flint mewled. Unexpectedly vulnerable. The sounds falling from him— _God—_ left Billy hard and aching all on their own. Even _he_ had limits.

He withdrew his hand slowly and applied more grease to himself with deliberate, enticing strokes. It shouldn’t hurt at all this time. He hoped. He rolled onto his back and dropped the jar near his things.

“Don’t go,” James muttered at his sudden absence.

Billy rolled back. “Not…” And touched him, sliding a hand to Flint’s chest so he could pull their bodies together. As close as could be. He propped himself up on one arm and used the other to guide. He couldn’t quite see in the moonlit dark, but he could navigate by feel well enough.

He found the trail of grease, the curve of ass that twitched at his touch. With a steadying hand on James’s hip, he levered himself closing the gap. Flint’s body opened to him, barely any resistance at all, and he groaned.

Billy took it slow, pulling almost all the way out and plunging back with a precise and steady rhythm. He changed angle, listening for caught breaths. There’s pleasure to be gained in the quick chase, pounding for climax. But there was something just as powerful in the unrelenting motion of the sea, an inexorable yielding of the body to a force it cannot control. Flint’s cries washed over him, his pleading. But he stroked with tender mercy and would not be moved.

That resistance is what broke, into ripples and shudders. Were it not for the ragged breaths, he wouldn’t have known, save for Flint’s hand squeezing on the one Billy had clamped to his hip, begging him to stop. He did, panting in relief, unconcerned that his own arousal would go unsatisfied. He withdrew and brushed a hand down Flint’s upper arm, placing another kiss on his shoulder, before rolling onto his back to let his body cool and drain of the aching.

His body throbbed, and his own breathing seemed like a hurricane. James stayed as he had been, curled on his side. Billy took no offense that he didn’t turn to him. Grief was a strange thing, and it would have its way with you.

 

 

Billy woke to sunlight and Flint leaning over him, watching intently. Honey warmth spread through his chest, taking simple pleasure at a lovely sight, and he arched up to give him a kiss. _Hello. Good morning. Are you well?_ James kissed him back, sweet and kind, but slowly, by degrees, extracting himself. Billy felt the withdrawing in him and settled back as the gentleness of waking slipped away. The look in Flint’s eye and the burrowing frown lines sharpened against Billy’s nerves.

“What?”

Sorrow and pain passed over Flint’s face, and he looked down as he swallowed, unable to meet Billy’s gaze. “We… We can’t do this.”

Billy frowned at him. “What?”

“It feels… good.” He said the word through clenched teeth and looked him in the eye, then. Billy’s frown deepened in confusion, and Flint tried again. “I can’t be what you want me to be,” he said.

A sharp feeling of panic hit Billy’s sternum. “Which is?”

“Wrath. It’s what you all want.” Flint gestured to the door. “For me to rain hell on the world, and I can’t. I _can’t_ be him out there. Not…” He sighed shaking his head. “Not if I’d rather be me in here.”

“James…”

“Listen to me!”

“I am!” He breathed hard.

Flint leaned down very close, the glint of danger suddenly back in the twist of his features. “Anger is an open wound, and it must fester. Do you understand?”

Billy swallowed, shaking his head and drawing back from that mask. He _knew_ it was a mask. But his gut punched with the ice of rejection. He squeezed out a breath. And pushed Flint aside so he could get up, ashamed of the ridiculous amount of hurt curling through his body. He grabbed at his clothes and started putting them on. “I was only trying to help.”

“You did. More than you can know.”

It felt petulant, pulling on his shirt in silence and dropping his necklaces back on without turning to look. Flint moved to the edge of the bed in his periphery, that spell-binding skin flashing bright in a ray of sunlight. Billy hadn’t intended this. Any of this. But _fuck_ , he’d poured his care into that vessel. Holding him in the middle of the night, through nightmares, through whatever the fuck that fit was. Lovers _did_ do that.

_Shit..._ _Shit fuck._

He’d never… held anyone after a terror, alloyed his strength to their fears. Forged such intimacy. He’d only… He just wanted to help a little. He wasn’t supposed—He wasn’t supposed to _like_ him. Not after everything.

Billy sighed, face burning, massive shoulders heaving. A fool’s errand, clearly. Who was Don fucking Quixote now?

“I’m doing what you wanted,” James said after too much silence, sounding like a plea.

Billy finished looping his belt and turned, meeting Flint gaze and trying desperately to ignore the rest of him. What could he say? It was the truth. He just hadn’t thought misery was the only fuel for that fire.

Then, because he couldn’t close that door forever, because his skin felt too small and his blood too hot, and because it would _hurt_ Flint more to leave the temptation open and make him choose, daily, not to walk through, he took a breath and steadied his voice.

“Well… I guess you know where to find me,” Billy said.

He turned to the door, ready to escape and take his wounded pride with him, but then he remembered and glanced at the desk. The little green book sat on the corner where he’d left it. Billy plucked it up, because, fuck it--why not torture himself a little more?

“Thanks for the book,” he said, tossing the words over his shoulder as he strode away.

 

 


End file.
